"Belle," I heard Rick's voice. It sounded like he was speaking to me from across the room, even though I could see him right in front of me. "You need to get home."
I shook my head. "Home is far away. Home is not for me anymore."
"Where is home, Belle?" he asked. "Did you come to Whitmer alone?"
Suddenly I was panicked. Rick was asking so many questions and in my current state of intoxication I wasn't able to determine whether he was trying to help me or trying to gather intel for his own nefarious purposes. I couldn't remember why I'd even come to this damn bar. It had to be one of the diviest dives I'd ever been to.
And keep in mind that I'm from the South. So that's saying something.
"I need to get to my bed," I said, standing up and immediately falling to the floor. I could hear people chuckling around me.
I'd caught myself and was now covered in the stickiness of the bar's floor. The scent of old beer, shoes, and feet, with a chaser of stale vomit, hit me all at once. Suddenly I was very warm.
And then it got worse. I added my own aroma to the fetid floor. I puked everywhere.
Fuck. My. Life.
"Ugh!" a waitress said, as she literally stepped over my pathetic form still lying on the floor. "Rick, we got a puker! Get her ass outta here! I don't get paid enough to clean up that kind of mess! Bitches can't handle their liquor these days!"
I couldn't even move. I was so mortified.
Suddenly, someone was picking me up.
Great. Rick was literally going to toss my ass into the street. Where was my purse? Or the motel card key?
I folded into myself. I'd never been so embarrassed in my entire life. I hoped whoever was carrying me would just throw me into a drainage ditch. Leave me there to just die from humiliation and from the pain that sat heavy in my heart from what had happened to me in Kentucky.
Once I'd gathered my senses, I could smell the woods again. And the grass. My heart almost stopped.
Huck was the one carrying me.
I was my worst self, and now, when I didn't want anyone to touch me, of course he would be touching me.
"Just take me to my car," I mumbled. "I'll sleep there tonight."
"The hell you will," he said. "What's your room number?"
It was the last thing I heard him say before I passed out.
2
Drinking was how I tried to forget.
But hangovers? That's all about remembering. And regret.
When I woke up the next morning, I found myself in my hotel room, still wearing the same clothes from the night before. My feet were bare and I was under the covers. At first I was confused about where I was and how I'd gotten there.
But it didn't take long for it all to come flooding back.
I pulled my pillow over my head. I'd come here hoping to feel better about things, but instead I felt worse. I'd made a complete ass of myself in front of an incredibly handsome man, and was now sleeping in my own vomit-scented clothes.
And I felt like shit on top of it all. I needed hydration and carbs. Stat.
I sat up, groaning as I felt the heaviness in my head. Ugh. This day was going to suck.
I was immediately grateful for a blue, plastic bucket that sat on the floor next to the bed. Interesting perk I hadn't noticed when I checked in. Maybe the maids at the hotel got tired of cleaning up messes made by patrons of The Side Pocket.
I looked at my surroundings. I was in your basic run-of-the-mill highway rest stop motel room. Not that I'd stayed in many of them throughout my life. As a matter of fact, this road trip had been my first time spending the night in any sort of accommodation that was rated less than 5 stars.
But that was a whole other story. I couldn't think about that right now.
I couldn't help but wonder how I'd gotten here. My last memory was of being carried out of the bar.
Huck.
The taste of bourbon couldn't wipe away the memory of his handsome face staring down at me. I could still feel the strength in his arms as he'd lifted me off the floor. As if I'd weighed nothing. I hadn't wanted to leave his arms, ever.
Somehow he'd figured out my room number. My guess was he'd gone through my purse to find it. My mind spun. What was in my purse that I wouldn't want him to see?
My Glock.
I was frantic now. Where was my Birkin purse? The one my mother had given me last Christmas. The one made of alligator skin that had cost more than what the average American makes in a year.
Yeah, I'd brought that purse into a dive bar. And also put my Glock 43 in it.
I let out a sigh of relief. The purse was on the chair across from my bed. My shoes were lined up neatly beneath the chair. My wallet and hotel card key were next to my purse.
And the gun was inside of it too. Untouched.
But he'd had to have seen it.
No matter. I had all my stuff. My Louis Vuitton duffel was on the floor next to the chair, zipped up with the clothes I'd thrown in it haphazardly the night I'd run away.
"Okay," I said to myself. "You're safe now. But you need a shower."
The water pressure in that tiny bathroom was surprisingly strong. It felt good on my aching shoulders and arms. I let the water hit my face for a long time, just letting it baptize me. I needed a cleansing.
More than one, really.
As I stepped out of the shower, I caught a view of myself in the mirror above the sink. I turned to see if they were still there.
The bruises.
They weren't as dark anymore, they were yellowing now. In a couple of days, they'd be gone, but the damage to my soul would remain forever.
I wanted to cry, but I shook my head. No. The man that had done that to me was not worth a single fucking tear. He was long gone. He'd never hurt me again.
Ever.
Thirty minutes later I was in some fresh clothes, my hair was wet but clean, and I was ready to explore this place called Whitmer and decide if it was where I wanted to stay or if I needed to find another freeway exit at which to restart my life.
It was a beautiful day, and now that the sun was out, I could see just how gorgeous Montana really was. I'd never breathed in air so crisp. Despite my hangover, I was mostly feeling good. I just needed some food in my growling belly.
Across the street The Side Pocket's parking lot was empty except for one old Ford pickup.
But next to it? Heaven. Nirvana. Valhalla. Paradise.
A Waffle Hut. And I could practically smell the bacon from where I was standing. The parking lot was somewhat full, so my guess was that the Waffle Hut was one of the more popular places in town. But I didn't care. I would have stood in line all day for a chance at a waffle drenched in maple syrup, bacon, and scrambled eggs. With endless amounts of coffee.
Despite the humiliation of last night, I was so much happier already. Food was the best medicine. My ultimate cure-all.
My happiness faded as soon as I walked through the diner's glass doors.
For one thing, when you walked into this place, the door made this crazy dinging noise to alert everyone within 100 yards that you had arrived. So as soon as I walked in? All eyes on me.
Not that I needed the doors' help announcing me. I got the feeling that everyone in the place was on a first-name basis and had been from birth. I stood out like a giraffe running in the Kentucky Derby.
Sadly, I recognized a couple of faces from last night. And they were all smirking at me. A couple laughed.
Fuck. This wasn't good.
"You gonna be able to hold your food down, sweetheart?" a very round, doughy-faced man asked me. "You were a big ol' mess last night."
I gave him a thin smile. "I think I'll be okay," I replied.
It felt like everyone was whispering around me. If I hadn't been so damn hungry, or if I thought I could find anywhere else to eat within fifty miles, I would have turned around and walked out. As a matter of fact, I was on the verge of it when I heard a voice I recognized.
"Belle!" Rick said. I looked over to see him in a booth with a guy who wasn't Huck, but who looked like could be related to him. He had the same jawline and eyes. But this one was much friendlier. Both men waved me over to them, looking genuinely happy to see me.
"Hi," I said, scooting into the booth next to Rick. "Good morning, I should say."
"Good morning, indeed," Rick replied. "How you feelin', Belle? You had a rough night."
"I'm fine," I said, looking down at my hands. "I'm so sorry about that. I'm happy to reimburse you for any damage I did … When I was sick."
Rick laughed, a hearty, good-natured one. "Oh, Belle. If I had to make people pay me every time they puked in our bar, I'd be pretty damn rich. This whole damn town would be in my debt. It's just a part of the job. You really did drink a lot of Maker's. Surprised you're even up. Hayes, this girl had 4 shots of bourbon within about 30 minutes. Took ‘em down like a champion."